


Sometimes, Needs Must

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is the Best PA, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft-centric, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes does not look kindly on those who makes errors in judgement, even if that person is himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes, Needs Must

* * * 

There are times when Mycroft yearns for more simple, less complicated, times. The halcyon days before CCTV and camera phones had become ubiquitous. When a gentlemen of position and responsibility could slip quietly down an alleyway, don a mask and a pseudonym, and be admitted to an establishment that would discretely cater to his more esoteric and exotic needs.

Sadly, those days were long over, and for persons such as himself, those in sensitive and highly placed positions within the British government, it would be the height of folly to even make the attempt to visit such a venue. No matter how careful he might be, he could rest assured that somewhere in the shadows, someone would be hiding with a camera in hand, waiting to collect potential blackmail fodder. 

But sometimes, needs must. And when Mycroft feels the overwhelming compulsion to satiate such needs he indulges them, albeit within the security of his own four walls, and with the assurance that his designated accomplice will be a person of the utmost circumspection. He glances up, and she is sitting at her desk, poised over her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. 

"Anthea, I will require your services this evening." 

She looks up at him attentively, waiting for instructions. 

"You can have the next few hours to attend to your own tasks. Pick me up at the Diogenes Club at nine o'clock. From there you can drive me home." 

Anthea nods once, knowing exactly what will be required of her. She taps a few more keys on her keyboard, handing over the monitoring of world events to another subordinate, and then slips out of the room, leaving Mycroft to mull over the sorry state of affairs with which he has once again found himself embroiled. 

He pushes the figurative chess pieces around for a time, and then, after determining he has done all he can do for the time being, he rises from his desk, barely noticing the security detail following him out of Whitehall. They tail him all the way to the Diogenes Club, and then they fade away.

There are days when Mycroft can't decide if his watchers are there because his superiors want to protect him, or because they fear what he might do if left to his own devices. The British government is filled with deeply suspicious people. Sometimes their imagined joining of dots borders on complete paranoia. In their line of work, it's an easy habit to fall into, and one Mycroft has to make a point to guard against in his own thinking. Not every meeting on a busy London street corner is the beginnings of a conspiracy.

He spends an hour reading over the 'so called' newspapers, comparing and contrasting the fictitious versions of events to the actual facts that for reasons he is much too familiar with, cannot be truthfully reported, and then, in a subdued frame of mind, he has a light dinner in the dining room. At exactly nine o'clock he steps outside, takes a breath of air heavy with automotive exhaust, and watches as Anthea pulls smoothly up to the kerb. 

The journey home is made in silence. Mycroft uses the time to reflect on the flaws in his judgement. He contemplates the people whose foibles he should have paid more attention, and of the events set in motion through a string of unlikely circumstances. The entire experience has been filled with what they are now calling 'teachable moments', and he resolves never to make the same sorts of errors again. 

But in his experience, resolve isn't enough. It's a lesson he had learnt during his school days. Fortunately, Mycroft's tutors had been of the old fashioned frame of mind. They firmly believed that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. He only had to look at his own younger brother's exploits to know that they were right. Sherlock, with his unruly habits, would have benefited from the judicious application of both the plimsole and the rod, if only he hadn't been born on the wrong side of the philosophical tide regarding corporal punishment. 

But tonight isn't about Sherlock, even though, because he hadn't been in full possession of the facts, he had stumbled into affairs that were much larger in scope than he could have possibly imagined. Mycroft knew he should have either warned Sherlock away or bitten the bullet and enlisted his aid. That error in judgement is just one of the reasons why he is in need of Anthea's special service. 

"I'll join you in the study directly." 

Mycroft hears the door open and close behind him as he treads the stairs to his bedroom. With an economy of motion, he disrobes completely, dons a dressing gown, and then removes the polished oak case from the top shelf of his wardrobe. He carries the case with him to the study and sees that everything is prepared for him. The desk is bare of its usual accoutrements. A towel and a tube of antibiotic ointment have taken the place of the computer and the pen and pencil set. 

He opens the case for Anthea's inspection. She looks into his face for a long moment. Her gaze is piercing as she reads his need. With pursed lips she drops her eyes and contemplates the choice of implements in the box. Finally, she chooses a polished rattan cane. "Are you ready to begin?" she asks.

"Yes, Miss," Mycroft replies in an uncharacteristically meek tone. He removes his dressing gown and hangs it over the chair behind his desk, and then takes a deep breath, lets it out again, and bends over at the waist. It's not a comfortable position, and his hands come to rest closer to his calves than his ankles. The long hours spent behind his desk are taking their toll on his flexibility, in more ways than one.

Anthea is thorough with the application of the ointment to his buttocks and thighs. The use of prophylactic treatment is an innovation that hadn't been around during his school days, but it is an acceptable variation of the classic form of punishment now that he is a man. After-care for infected cane marks would cause remarks to be made if his medical files were ever compromised, and he cannot afford the risk. Rather than allowing himself to be distracted by the caress of Anthea's fingertips over his bare flesh, Mycroft prepares himself for the cane, easing his muscles and sinews into a deeper stretch, so by the time Anthea has finished, he has worked his fingers another inch or so closer to the floor. 

He takes a deep breath as the cane hisses through the air. Anthea is taking her practice strokes, doing limbering exercises of her own. Each time the cane whispers, Mycroft involuntarily tenses, awaiting a blow that doesn't come. This too is part of the punishment. The dread of not knowing. In his work, it is something he has come to loathe. 

The cane cuts the air again. This time it lands smartly, a sharp, burning pain across Mycroft's naked buttocks. He flinches against the strike and shuts his eyes as he brings the first of his miscalculations to mind. Having made the direct association between his error and the lick of fire that is singeing his flesh, he is ready for the next stroke of the cane. His fingers drop a little closer to the floor, and his posterior angles up a bit higher, offering Anthea a better target. 

"Thank you, Miss. May I have another?" 

The cane swings. Light strokes that sting. Sharp strokes that are deliberately meant to break the skin. Each time the cane meets his flesh, Mycroft makes a mental association between the error of his ways and the pain, and then he thanks Anthea with a humble heart. She, in turn, is careful how she metes out his punishment. Tomorrow Mycroft must attend a meeting of high level government advisers who will have their own ideas about which measures will be appropriate to prevent a repeat of this latest débâcle. All eyes will be upon him, accessing his fitness to remain in his post. Any physical or mental impairment will be commented upon, and duly noted. To keep his position secure, his punishment must remain a private affair. 

Mycroft feels drops of blood begin to trickle down his legs. It is a small price for allowing the feelings of others to influence his judgement. He vows he will not let such a grievous error affect his work again. His reputation is that of an Ice Man, although living up to his reputation is an aspiration he has yet to truly achieve. Perhaps, some day, if there is enough time allotted to him, he will become that man. Cold. Passionless. Pure intellect without a vestige of emotion to corrupt his reasoning. 

Anthea steps away, punishment concluded. She offers Mycroft a hand in order to help him rise. He declines the assistance with a small shake of his head, and with a degree of grace that even he finds surprising, straightens his spine. He takes the towel from the table and wraps it around his waist before allowing Anthea to help him into his dressing gown. He smiles at her, a small upturn of his lips to acknowledge a job well done. 

Anthea nods back, accepting the gesture for what it is. "The usual time in the morning, Mr Holmes?" 

He nods again. Anthea picks up her coat and car keys, and then she is gone, leaving Mycroft alone in the empty house. His mobile bleeps, announcing a new looming crisis. With a sigh, Mycroft resets his desk and gingerly sits down at his computer to assess the situation, knowing the stinging pain of his healing flesh will be a constant reminder of the hard choices he must make in the days ahead.

end


End file.
